Death in the Dolomites by David Wagner (people reading books TXT) 📗

characterized as perky, with a pleasant smile and hair styled to be practical rather than alluring. They did not wear matching sweaters, but looked like the type of couple who would. Flavio spotted Rick and waved him over.

“Rick, I’d like you to meet John and Mary Smith,” he said in English. “They just checked in.”

The man noticed Rick’s look as he shook hands. “Yeah, I know. The names. We get that reaction a lot. Nice to meet you Rick.”

“Flavio tells us you are an American.” Mary Smith shook Rick’s hand. “And that you met at school in New Mexico.” She had a genuine smile, without all the nuances that often came with Italian women.

“That’s right. And you two are on vacation from the States? It’s a long way to come to ski.”

“John’s in the Army, and we’ve been at the base in Vicenza since September. This is the first chance we’ve had to ski so we’re looking forward to spending the week here.”

Rick knew about Caserma Ederle, outside the city of Vicenza in the upper Po Valley, but had never met anyone who was stationed there. “Thank you for your service.” His words were meant for both of them and they smiled in appreciation. “Where are you from?” he added. It was the standard question for expats of any country when meeting, especially Americans.

“We’re both from Colorado, and met at CSU.”

“I reminded them,” said Flavio, “that our ski team never lost to Colorado State when I was there.”

“But you didn’t mention that our football team never beat them.”

“I do not concern myself with the minor sports, Rick, you know that.”

“I feel like I’m back in the Rocky Mountains,” John Smith said as he stood up. “We have to get our skis rented before dinner, so we’d better be on our way. Flavio, thanks for the suggestion of a rental place, we’ll be sure to ask for Bruno. Rick, nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine, I look forward to chatting with you again.”

They all shook hands again and the couple hurried out of the room.

“Nice people,” said Flavio, returning to Italian. “Now I want to know everything you two detectives have been up to. Where’s Luca?”

“He took a call when we walked in—here he is.”

Luca’s normal smile was gone, replaced by a dark look that Rick had not seen the entire afternoon. The policeman tossed his coat and hat on a bench and slid into the booth where his friends sat. “A body has been found wearing a light blue ski jacket, dark pants, and a blue bandana. Almost certainly it is that of Signor Taylor. The crime scene team is on its way from Trento, and when it arrives I will accompany them to where the body was found, which unfortunately is halfway up the mountain under the gondola cables.”

“Could he have fallen from the gondola?” asked Flavio.

“He almost certainly fell from the gondola, but since the body is inside a sack, I must conclude that he was already dead when he was pushed out. The crime scene people and the medical examiner will determine it, but it’s hard to think of another scenario. I doubt if he was dragged to where he was found. The boys who found him were almost lost, they were so far off the trails.”

Luca looked at the bar, as if deciding whether to have something to drink. Reading his mind, Rick said: “Perhaps a shot of brandy is called for. It will be cold on the mountain.”

The suggestion drew a weak nod from the policeman. “I’d better not, but you’re right about the cold. Good thing I have my new hat. The sergeant told me they’ll have snow boots and a suit ready for me. It will be my first ride on a snowmobile.” He looked at Rick and sighed deeply. “So, my American friend, our investigation has turned from missing person to homicide.”

And there is no lack of suspects, thought Rick. Luca rose to his feet and turned to pick up his coat. “Riccardo, I must ask a favor since my English is not good. I can see from your face that you know what it will be.”

“If you’d like me to go with you to tell Cat Taylor, of course I will.”

“Grazie,” said Luca as he picked up his coat and hat and walked into the lobby toward the door.

Flavio’s eyes followed the policeman. “This is a tragedy, Rick, and it will bring back some painful memories for the people of Campiglio.” He took a couple breaths before continuing. “Five years ago, right about this time, a local girl—I remember her name was Fiametta—disappeared. A few days later her body was found. She had taken her own life. The reason, as the police were able to piece it together from her parents, was that a year before, she had undergone an abortion. Its anniversary had plunged her into deep despair. Enough to…”

They remained silent for a few moments before Rick spoke. “How sadly appropriate was her name, Fiametta. A ‘little flame’ whose light disappeared too soon.”

Flavio nodded his head slowly. “That time we went from a disappearance to a suicide. Now, five years later, Campiglio goes from a disappearance to a murder.”

***

Flavio leaned back in his chair and studied his friend’s face. They were almost finished with a second bottle of wine—a rich, dark Bardolino from the hills along Lake Garda. Rick had recounted the various interviews of the afternoon over the first two courses of asparagus risotto and veal with lemon sauce. Flavio let him talk, sensing that it was having a therapeutic effect on Rick, and knowing that his friend was dreading his second meeting with the dead man’s sister.

“So the interviews were fine as far as they went, but of course, when we did them, Luca was investigating a disappearance. Now that we’re into homicide, everything changes.”

“Riccardo, I know Luca appreciates your help, and not just the translations.”

Rick shrugged, took another drink from his wineglass, and glanced out